Devil's Courtesan
by AngelxPhoenix
Summary: "God and Satan just leave the lonely to themselves in here..."


**All right, so I admit, I've been wanting to write a story with this scenario for quite some time. As such, it's a little, shall we say, raunchier than anything I've posted thus far. Read at your own risk, and please tell me what you think!**

Night had fallen and the sky was an endless reach of inky blackness, as though the streetlamps had stolen the light from the stars themselves. She stood on her usual corner of the pavement wearing her best dress, which had bypassed the reputable stage long ago and now looked somewhere between shabby and unsalvageable. She wasn't wearing any jewelry—she hardly had any left after selling most of it to pay for a few simple necessities—but she'd arranged her hair and put on some rouge, using perfume to mask the smell of her musty clothes. She wasn't much to look at, but she knew how to please her customers.

Every gentleman that passed was a potential profit. The ones who engaged her services paid her well and as for the ones who turned her down, she was sly and neat-fingered enough to relieve them of a few valuables before they moved on.

There was no denying she'd gone down in the world. She wouldn't have chosen this life for herself, to satisfy every craving, play out each fantasy, and give every last client a soft place to land. True, there wasn't much else she could do but starve, yet when the cost of living was the slow death of the soul, she had to wonder some nights if the price was too high.

She'd been out for several hours and already sated a few appetites and lifted a few purses when she saw him, a tall thin figure making his way up the pavement. She tucked a stray lock of hair aside and moved in, blocking his path. "Good evening, monsieur," she said, lowering her voice seductively. "Are you looking for some company?"

"No," he replied tersely, his own voice sharp yet irresistibly beguiling. "Step aside."

She ran her hand along his arm and said, "You don't need to rush off so soon. Why don't you come with me and let's see if I can put a smile on your face?"

"I'm not interested," he told her, brushing her off.

"Suit yourself, love," she said, but her hand furtively reached for his pocket—

She let out a gasp of shock and pain as he seized her wrist and twisted it back in a grip strong as steel and cold as death. Her manner changed abruptly as she pleaded, "Please, monsieur, I meant no harm, I'm just trying to earn an honest living—"

"What do you know of honesty?" he demanded, leaning down to her. Her blood ran cold at the sight of the white mask obscuring half his face. "You let every paying customer between your legs and steal from the rest like every piece of gutter trash in this city."

"I'm sorry, monsieur," she insisted, trying to pull free. "I'll be off, now, I swear it, please don't hurt me—"

"You're hardly worth the trouble," he told her, releasing her. "There's not much more I could do to hurt you and it would be less merciful not to break your neck here and now."

Something in his speech prompted her sincerity. "I've often fallen asleep hoping I wouldn't wake again," she admitted, "but I always do."

"What do you do then?" he asked.

"I try to get some food in my belly and go on as normally as possible," she answered, "like everyone else."

"Like everyone else," he repeated. He paused for a moment, then asked, "What's your name?"

"I don't use names," she told him. "They're too personal."

"Have it your way. What exactly is it you do for your clients?"

She began to relax again, recovering from her sudden fright and soothed into peacefulness by his voice. If she'd been of a superstitious nature, she would have called it witchcraft. "I do whatever they want," she said. "I give them what they can't find anywhere else. I make them feel like real men."

His hand convulsed into a fist and she tried again, placing her hand on his chest and murmuring, "My offer still stands, monsieur. Come with me, and I'll give you everything you desire."

She waited for his answer, wondering if he would refuse her again. Finally he said, "Very well."

Looping her arm through his, she said, "Follow me, love. I have a room just around the corner."

They went in silence, not even looking at each other. She led him down the street and around the bend to a stern, drab-looking boardinghouse. Taking her key from her pocket, she opened the door and whispered to her companion, "Be quiet on the stairs, if you would. My landlady sleeps light and she doesn't approve of guests this late."

He nodded mutely as they entered the house and followed her upstairs with as little noise as a panther. They crept down a dark hallway and she opened the door on a small, scantily-furnished bedroom. Moth-eaten curtains hung over the only window and the wallpaper was ugly and faded. A threadbare rug covered the floorboards and the wardrobe and wash stand were clearly secondhand. The only other furniture was an armchair and a bed.

She tossed her bedraggled hat aside, turned up the gas lamp, and said, "It's not much but the rent's cheap, which isn't really saying a lot. I finally saved enough to get a new mattress three weeks ago. I figure if I spend all my time in bed, I might as well be comfortable." She turned to the man, still standing in the doorway as if having second thoughts about entering. She drew him into the room, closing the door behind him and taking his cloak. "Make yourself at home, dearie," she said. "You're in good hands."

After a few moments' deliberation, he sat down in the chair and she sat opposite on the bed. She leaned forward to him, putting her hand on his knee and running her palm along the inside of his thigh while giving him an ample view down the front of her dress. "How do you want me?" she asked provocatively.

He suddenly shot to his feet and moved to the far side of the room, keeping his back to her. "You—you said you'd do anything I desired, correct?" he asked.

"Indeed," she replied, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back on her hands. She recognized the signs before her. Every now and again she would render her services to men who'd never sought out such company before, who were anxious and eager and shy all at once. They took a little time to warm to the situation, but they were usually the most insatiable and well-paying of her customers.

"Would you—talk to me?"

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. She thought she'd done everything it was possible to do with her customers, but no one had ever wanted her to talk before. "Beg pardon?"

He slowly turned to her again and said, "Talk to me. As if I'm just like any other human being."

Her eyes raked over his figure, taking in his tall, trim form, his dark hair, his elegantly cut suit and his strong yet unnervingly icy hands. He had a very fine face to match—or rather, what she could see of it was very fine. He still wore that white mask. "You look just like any other human being to me," she informed him, "except for the mask. You don't have to wear it any longer, love. There's no witnesses in here."

"I'd prefer to leave it on, thank you," he replied coldly.

She shrugged and sighed. "Have a seat, monsieur. Is there anything in particular you want to talk about? I'm not the one men confess their sins to, if you follow me."

"I'm sure I do, mademoiselle," he said, sitting back down. "You're the one they turn to before they have any sins to confess…if you follow."

She straightened up, beginning to feel annoyed. "I don't see that it's your business to judge me," she told him. "A woman does what she has to do to get by, and that's something no stiff-cocked male could ever understand."

"Relax, mademoiselle, I wasn't judging you," he assured her. "Your affairs are of no interest to me. I was only making an observation."

"Well, aren't you the clever one?" she replied. "What else are you doing, trying to save my soul?"

"Not at all. If I guess correctly, I'd say what soul is left within you is nearly dead."

She paused, staring into his yellow eyes. "What do you mean?" she asked quietly. "Why do you say that?"

He sighed heavily and fell silent for several long moments, then said, "We don't even know each other's names and after tonight we'll never see each other again, so I feel no reserve about being frank with you. I say your soul is dead because I recognize it in myself. It's all written in your eyes, if you know how to look. They're hollow and lifeless, and no matter how hard you try you can't hide their emptiness. And I'm hardly one of your stiff-cocked males, mademoiselle. I can understand the reason why."

"Then tell me."

"I'd say spending every night in the arms of nameless strangers is about as numbing yet painful as spending every night alone. Be honest with me; you do this to survive, yes?"

She nodded.

"But how do you survive your means of survival?" he asked. "How do you do it without losing your mind?"

She went quiet, surprised and ashamed at the sudden tears she could feel coming. She bit her lip and replied slowly, "I suppose I…I try not to feel anything. My body is there, but—if my mind is elsewhere, it can't be touched. And if my heart isn't in it, it won't be harmed."

"You cut yourself off from everything that matters," he said.

"You might say that."

"And what then? It becomes a habit to let it go when you have to, and it works so well you just keep letting it go. Eventually, you can't hold onto it even when you want to. What happens when it doesn't come back?"

She closed her eyes as if it could protect her from his words and said, "That's the one fear I can't escape from." She took a handkerchief from the front of her dress and wiped away the tears before blowing her nose. "And what exactly do you know of all this, monsieur?" she inquired, stowing the handkerchief out of sight again. "I can't imagine we have so much in common."

"We don't," he agreed, "except for that. We both have to escape, and we both find that escape is just as lethal as the thing we're running from."

"What could you possibly have to run from?"

He held her gaze with a look that seared. The lamp light struck his face, softening the fine features yet glaring harshly off the mask. "We agreed you're not the one men confess their sins to, mademoiselle," he told her.

"So it's the demons of long ago you're trying to escape," she said.

"Maybe. Maybe it's the ghosts of what I've done or what I've seen. Maybe it's the same for you."

"Well, you're right about that. The Lord knows how I've sinned."

"And yet He does nothing about it. He makes no move to punish you for turning from Him, or to alleviate your agonies. Does He just not care, or does He even exist at all?"

"Don't talk like that, monsieur," she entreated. "I would be ashamed to stand before Him knowing the things I've done, but I would be glad that this life was over and I could move on to something greater."

"So you don't fear death?" he asked her.

She considered the question for a moment before answering, "It's hard to fear the end of life when you're already half-dead inside. I don't see how it could be much different from falling asleep. The only thing I'd be afraid of is whether or not it would hurt. I've had enough of pain to last a lifetime."

"It's a dangerous line of work you're in," he agreed.

"Once in a while I get a client who likes to play rough," she went on, "or one satisfied just to knock me down and leave me bleeding. Even before all this, my father was—not a good man. He'd slap Mother around, whip us children with a leather strap, and come into my room late at night to have his way with me."

He lowered his eyes and said, "I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "I don't know why you're sorry," she told him. "It's nothing to do with you."

"Nevertheless, I'm sorry for what you've suffered."

She smiled weakly. "It's all right. I've lived through it thus far. So, what's your story, love?"

He fixed her with another sharp look. "It's a waste of speech to use words like that," he told her. "Love has no place in what you do, and we both know it."

Her eyes widened slightly. "All right, then," she said. "My apologies. It's just part of the game."

"It's a game to you?" he demanded. "Making light of what should be held sacred and pretending that it all means nothing?"

She shifted slightly where she sat and replied, "Sometimes you have to pretend. If you admit that it matters, that it _should _matter, it only lets in the hurt. If you don't make it a game, then you don't get to make the rules, either."

"So what you're saying is that only the ones with the least to lose can play at this and win?"

She nodded. "From what I've seen, that's how it goes. It's sad for the people who want more, isn't it?"

He sat quietly, lost in his own thoughts, and she gazed idly around the room waiting for him to speak. Eventually he said, "So it's possible to pretend for a moment that it's really not important, that love is overrated? You don't have to risk it all to get what you need?"

"Not in this room," she told him. "God and Satan just leave the lonely to themselves in here. Why do you ask?"

He hesitated. "I've—needed, for so long…"

"If you want my slit, monsieur, you hardly need to beg for it."

"No, I just—I need to feel something, something in this nothing I've lost myself in. I need to feel human…just like anyone else."

She stood and walked to the chair, settling herself in his lap. "That's what I'm here for," she told him, beginning to loosen his tie.

He sat rigid and unresponsive, replying haltingly, "I've never—done this before. Never."

She nodded slowly in comprehension. "Never made love to a woman before?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"That's all right, dearie. I'll show you just how to do it." She took his hand and guided it beneath her skirt, placing his fingers at her entrance. She shivered slightly; his skin was so cold. "Like this," she said, moving his hand so he stroked her through her undergarments. "That's all there is to it. There's nothing to be afraid of."

He didn't reply, watching wordlessly as she steered him along, already purring and humming her pleasure. She reached up with her free hand to remove his mask but he caught her in midair. "Don't touch it," he warned harshly.

"Why can't I see your face, monsieur?" she asked. "I'd like to see for myself whether or not I've satisfied you."

"You have your rules and I have mine," he shot back. "Leave it alone."

She gave it up and took her hands back, leaving him to continue stimulating her as she unlaced her dress and took her arms out of the sleeves. It pooled around her waist and she ignored it, discarding corset and chemise to expose her breasts. She heard his sharp inhalation at the sight and leaned back slightly to give him a better view. "Give me your other hand," she instructed.

He shook slightly as he obeyed and again she led him, this time to cup and fondle. She felt his body harden beneath her and he began to take an active part in pleasuring her, tweaking her nipple between his fingers.

She smiled in delight and nodded. "You're learning fast, monsieur." She drew away from him and stood, letting her dress slide off her hips to the floor. "Would you like to finish undressing me?" she asked.

He nodded slowly and she stepped closer. He seemed almost afraid to touch her, carefully removing her petticoat, rolling her stockings down her legs, and finally drawing off her pantaloons.

Accustomed as she was to men eager to have her, she found this one's timidity rather refreshing. She showed no modesty, taking his hands again and running them freely across her breasts, hips, bottom, legs, and womanhood. He gasped to feel how wet she was and went deeper, repeating her earlier motions of stroking and circling. She let out a moan and he suddenly stopped. "Was that wrong?" he inquired.

"Oh no, monsieur," she replied. "It was just right. Come now, let's get you out of those clothes." She drew him to his feet and he took off jacket, tie, and shirt while she unfastened his trousers and pulled them down, baring his erection to her eyes. She knelt in front of him and pressed her lips to it before lapping the length of him with her tongue. He hissed sharply through clenched teeth and she looked up and asked, "You liked that, didn't you?"

He nodded and she heard his throaty growl as she took him in her hands, working him with practiced fingers. "You like this too, don't you?"

He nodded again, his hands curled into white-knuckled fists.

She stood up and went to her bed, laying back and spreading her legs. "Over here, monsieur," she beckoned. "Come lay down with me."

He followed and stretched himself out on top of her. Reaching down between them, she grasped him firmly and guided him into her, saying, "Go slowly. It will be a bit overwhelming for you, and I'd like to finish."

He groaned loudly as her body encased his and didn't move for a moment or two. She moved beneath him and asked, "How does that feel, dearie?"

"Good," he replied breathlessly. "So good." He then began to thrust, slowly as she'd instructed while every instinct urged him to move faster and faster.

Her eyes fell shut and her lips twisted into a smile as her pleasure mounted. She found his hand and put him back at her clit, a small cry bursting from her as he stimulated her again, his movements rougher and wilder than before. "Like that, monsieur!" she cried. "Just like that!"

He gave a gruff, incoherent response and kept going, and she twisted the bedclothes in her fist. Under her guidance, he made her moan and gasp; she writhed in suspense and he nearly pulled away again.

"Don't stop!" she shouted. "Keep going!" She'd never met such a quick study! She was at his mercy! "Oh God, monsieur, oh yes! Yes!"

She opened her eyes again as her climax approached and looked up at him, his yellow orbs burning and the light flickering off his mask. A sudden impulse seized her, piercing the haze of lust, and she reached up and took it away.

She let out a scream of ecstasy and horror, insensible at her orgasm and the sight of that face. It was a demon staring down at her, a corpse come to life in her bed with no nose, a sunken cheek, and a fiery eye glaring out of an empty socket…half skull, half human.

He cried out in unspeakable agony at her action, wrapping his hands around her throat and tightening his grip. She choked and struggled, fighting to break his hold and desperate to breathe. Her eyes bulged, her lips tingled, she felt herself getting weaker…there were tiny lights obscuring her vision…then blackness.

She didn't know how much time had gone by when she came around. Her head was aching and her throat was sore and she was naked and—alone?

She looked around the room. There was no sign of anyone else.

She slowly rose from the bed, gazing about her in confusion. It was all like some sort of nightmare; there had been a well-dressed masked man with her, talking to her and coupling with her. The pleasure had been so intense, and in the heat of it she had stolen his mask and beheld a monster. He'd strangled her and then…she woke up.

She shivered at the memory. Thank goodness it was just a nightmare. She went to the wash stand and poured some water into the basin, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror. The jug slipped from her hands and crashed to the floor.

There were bruises on her neck, dark angry bruises. Wide-eyed, she placed her hands over them. It wasn't a nightmare; someone had been choking her.

Shocked, she looked away from the mirror and her eyes fell on the armchair. Sitting on the cushion was an envelope, a rather thick envelope. She picked it up and opened it, nearly shouting out in amazement. Inside were twenty one-thousand franc notes. Her hand trembled as she turned the envelope over and read the words scrawled on the front:

"With O.G.'s compliments."

**Thank you!**


End file.
